---
Heavy march then wears out,
replaced by slovenly steps.
Sun steps in and out the horizons,
and neither of them set store on it
like the first time--
it all grew too dull:
repetitive dusk, trite dawn,
countless downfalls,
unpromising hope.
The imagination of
the little girl of seven
starts to wander 'round the roads,
farther than the places
the parade reaches.
Lights flash before her eyes;
the four wheels' fury maddens her.
Her fantasy gruffly says
that the car will rush at her
and that there's no place you'll find
outside home, akin to home
where poppa didn't wish you safety,
where you found joy in a dichotomy.
She hoped others to do
the real job of a family
for family does the job
others must do, but
you can't borrow a parent.
It occurs not everyday, to have
family without a rent.
With or without flaws,
your home's still
incomparable to others'.
With or without smiles,
with or without him
by the side of the road,
with or without gratitude
from an unhealthy friend,
this one's, still,
gotten to be a happy ending.
---
YOU ARE READING
Parade
Poetry𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚 ╰ a s e r i e s o f p o e m s ╰ c o m p l e t e d Little Fussbudget knew nothing but her shelf of problems in her innocent world... not until she was silenced by an angelic beast. In the endless parade she joined, find out the trut...
